


Bitter Cocoa

by AurigaVenatici (p_3a), OtterMcKilbourne (p_3a)



Series: NaNoWriMo 2015 [8]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Assassination, Betrayal, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Childhood Friends, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fire, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nightmares, Parent Death, Partial Mind Control, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunion Sex, Sad Ending, varian wrynn has ptsd - post-traumatic stress disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p_3a/pseuds/AurigaVenatici, https://archiveofourown.org/users/p_3a/pseuds/OtterMcKilbourne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varian Wrynn's ongoing relationship with Bolvar Fordragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 is saccharine; chapter 4 is happy. Chapters 2, 3, and 5 are angst hell. This fic does not have a happy ending. Consider yourself sufficiently warned.
> 
> The smut is in Chapter 4 only.

“And Varian, don’t forget you have to be done by three! You have an appointment with your reading tutor!”  
“ _Yes_ , Mama! I remember!” Varian sighed heavily and rolled his eyes; Queen Taria ruffled the young Prince’s hair, then smoothed it back down again before patting his back and _finally_ letting him out into the greeting hall.

It was an annual event, now - something Varian's father, King Llane, had decided might raise morale among Stormwind’s most vulnerable populations. A meet-and-greet at the palace with the Royal Family for Stormwind’s orphans. There were civil servants and members of the House of Nobles there, too, or else it would turn into a big mob of children all trying to see the King and Queen - instead, the atmosphere was more like that of a cocktail party, only with less of Varian standing around to look good for his parents and far more of him actually getting to eat stuff from the buffet tables.

And it was busier every year. Which was good for Varian - but not so much for his father, he knew. More orphans meant more mouths for the Crown to feed, and with the war in the south that was already costing them so much money, the situation wasn’t going to improve. Varian was old enough now that his parents had explained all this to him, and asked him what he’d do - he’d said he’d try to end the war as quickly as possible, and they both seemed to approve of that.

He knew maybe some of the older orphans would ask him about that. Some of them must be newly orphaned, too. Surely they’d want to ask him about what his parents were doing to stop any more deaths. The thought made Varian a little nervous, to be honest... but that was nothing that stuffing his face with fifteen different flavours of cake couldn’t fix. Really, was there _anything_ that couldn’t be fixed with cake?

It was while contending slightly with other children of various ages for the little slices of cakes that he couldn’t help but overhear his first conversation - at least, one that wasn’t about what the décor looked like or whether the food was better or worse than last year. He glanced over, then retreated from the cake table - at least five different flavours already piled up on his plate, to tide him over - and moved towards the group.

It was one of the orphanage managers - a gentleman of middle age - talking with one of the members of the House of Nobles who had attended. They were discussing the fact that Mara Fordragon had been sponsoring the evacuation of refugees from the war in the south to the northern kingdom of Lordaeron. While the adults spoke, under the orphanage manager’s wing was a young boy a couple of years older than Varian, staring distantly at the cake table.

And…

Varian’s cheeks coloured.

He was _cute_.

He had chocolate-coloured hair cropped just below chin-length, dark eyes, pale brown skin, and was holding a stack of books in his arms. So even if he’d managed to make it away from the conversation, he wouldn’t have been able to hold any cake. This was exactly the sort of tragedy that Varian Adamant Wrynn, Crown Prince of Stormwind, ten years old and _premier cake-holder of Azeroth_ was qualified to address.

So, obviously, he went over to help the cute boy out.

Eavesdropping further on the conversation as he walked closer revealed that this boy was Mara Fordragon’s beneficiary of a scholarship at the Cathedral; but that line of conversation stopped as soon as they realised Varian was approaching. The adults both bowed low, and the cute boy flustered for a moment before doing the same; Varian returned the bow, to the right height of a Prince to his subjects, then greeted them all.

He pretended to listen to the names of the adults, but he only _really_ paid attention to the boy’s. “This is Bolvar,” the orphanage manager said.  
“Pleased to meet you, Bolvar,” Varian smiled, bowing slightly again out of habit.  
“We were just saying,” the noble began, “how Bolvar’s sponsor--”  
“Excuse me,” Varian interrupted, as he well knew he had the right. “May I offer Bolvar some cake before we continue?”

The adults both laughed, and Varian offered his plate forward. He found himself, bizarrely, not really caring which of the flavours Bolvar went for - of course Varian had favourites, but he wanted to impress this boy even more. Slight confusion took his mind as he realised this shift in his priorities. This must be the… uh… “crushes” his father had warned him he might start experiencing soon. Light blind him - he hadn’t expected it to be _this soon_.

“Thank you,” Bolvar said, with a relieved-looking smile. And Varian grinned back, slightly stupidly. “It’s no problem! Really. No problem at all. Citizen.”

 _Very_ stupidly. But Bolvar seemed impressed, so he didn't really care.

He had to entertain conversation with the adults from then on, of course; that was the sacrifice that had to be made. But it was worth it. And as they nattered on, he and Bolvar quietly shared the cake - smiling shyly to each other.

Three o’clock came too soon, and Varian reluctantly excused himself. On mentioning that it was for a _reading appointment_ , though, Bolvar suddenly threw him a lifeline:

“Um… if I can speak?”  
“Sure,” Varian said, casually. “Please don’t hold back on my account.”  
“I’m actually pretty good at reading--”  
“--the best in his age group,” the orphan manager interrupted, beaming.  
“Uh-- yes.” Bolvar went red, and he smiled nervously, but he carried on. “Maybe if you wanted, I could help you out some time.”

Varian felt like his eyes must be sparkling. He held himself back from screaming _oh, yes please, I am so_ very _fed up of these stuffy grown-ups_ , and instead politely smiled at Bolvar. “I’d really like that. Let me talk to my parents.”

Which he did; and it wasn’t long at all before Prince Varian had a new literacy tutor, and a new best friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bolvar helps Varian cope with the loss of Stormwind.

Varian woke up suddenly from the nightmare - and Bolvar was right there, groggily crawling over into his bed to help calm his crying and get him back to sleep.

It was five years since they’d met, and a lot had happened since then. Varian had lost his parents, his city, his home - and they’d had to go north, seek refuge in Lordaeron. It hadn’t been Bolvar’s idea to do that, but it may as well have been - his benefactor, Mara Fordragon, had pioneered the evacuation of refugees from the Kingdom of Azeroth to Lordaeron, after all - and the thought had comforted Varian often since they’d arrived. It was cold up here, and he didn’t like the way people looked at him - with pity, not respect. But even just knowing Bolvar was here made it alright.

Bolvar had been the only reason he’d made it out of the city, after all.

That’s what the nightmare had been about. Bolvar shushed him gently and wrapped the blanket tighter around them as Varian recalled it; seeing the knife go through his father. Seeing Garona’s face as she realised what she’d done, with horrid tears staining it - like she had any right. Varian running, in a panic, for the escape hatch the next corridor over. No one else had realised what had happened yet; the way the rest of the guards were simply at their posts, chatting to one another, made him feel dizzy just to think about it. He didn’t have time to think about where his mother was. Where _anyone_ was. He just had to run.

When he’d reached the surface, he only realised how alone he was - and how stupid he’d been - when he saw the city around him, not safe at dusk with the night’s watchmen milling around and able to take him to SI:7 so he could be transported safely to his betrothed’s family home, but _on fire_.

But Bolvar was clever, and thoughtful. He must have realised where Varian would have gone, because he found Varian before anyone else did - told him there were boats at the dock, to take them to safety. They’d even picked up other children on their way - and then they’d boarded the boats, with Sir Lothar and Khadgar and the rest, and Bolvar had been there the whole time to hide Varian’s tears from others’ view with his tattered cloak.

His father had been stabbed. His mother was-- Light only knew where. Everything he’d known had been wrecked by the orcs. Now, he thought bitterly, he was an orphan of the war as well - like the ones at the old meet-and-greets. Fresh tears sprang to his eyes as he thought of how many of those people must be dead now, how many of those _children_ must have been slaughtered like his father; and how much he would give that his reading and writing lessons were the biggest of his worries again.

But Bolvar was here. And as he sang gentle hymns he’d learned in church, Varian began to feel just a little calmer. He fell to sleep on Bolvar’s shoulder again - just as he did almost every night.

They grew up together, there in Capital City of what was now the Alliance; as they matured, and as the hurt in Varian’s heart grew scabbed and calloused by time, they moved into separate bedrooms. They spent much of their days apart, too - Varian would have to sit in on meetings between Terenas and his various nobles, to ensure the affairs concerning his kingdom were being conducted in a manner he approved of; while Bolvar would go about finishing his training with the Church of the Holy Light. He was almost of age now, just a couple of years ahead of Varian in that regard - he’d be expected to become ordained, soon.

Ordained, or… consecrated. There was a new way of serving the Light now, after all. Varian had never had any talent for spellcasting, but Bolvar had excelled with the Light since before he’d even started his training. And once a week, he sat down with Varian and read out the reports detailing the efforts of the brave heroes to retake Stormwind City and the Elwynn Forest that surrounded it.

Varian himself was enamoured with the brave and witty Khadgar, who he knew in truth to only be a few years older than he and Bolvar were (despite appearing to be an old man on the outside). But Bolvar had a different name that coloured his cheeks when he read it out: Turalyon was one of the first Paladins, a type of holy warrior who combined sword and board with the righteous fury the Light could bring. And it was clear to Varian long before Bolvar seemed to realise for himself: Bolvar needed to become this new type of warrior.

It was those treasured nights together when they teased each other about their crushes - Varian got teased about his supposed crush on Prince Arthas (it was more like a… _something that wasn’t a crush_ , Varian hastily justified to himself), and Bolvar got teased about his crush on Turalyon.

Varian didn’t know much about the Light, but he did know that love was a feeling that came from it. He didn’t know if crushes counted… but still. He was just as proud of Bolvar for following the new path laid out for him, and being inducted as a paladin just before they left for the freshly-rebuilt Stormwind, as Turalyon himself no doubt would have been.


	3. Chapter 3

Varian was alone again.

He tried to ignore how he was trembling, and instead reached for one of the books on his bookshelf. He tried to avoid being alone these days. Even now, years after his wife’s death, her loss still struck him on a daily basis - it was inescapable. Every part of the Keep, this Keep which had been built to escape the horrors of the past, reminded him of her absence and left him crushed under the feet of the march of time. Some days, he couldn’t even get out of bed.

He’d been doing alright, today. Bolvar had been there to help him get up. He’d eaten breakfast with little Anduin - by now, a precocious toddler; it felt like yesterday he’d been a babe in arms - and tried to get on with his day’s work. But then… Lady Prestor had called Bolvar away on very important business, and now he was alone, and shaking, and--

He opened the book. It was one he’d read before; printed slightly larger than usual. Just a fiction story. It usually calmed him down. But today the words swam in front of his eyes and he struggled to track one line to the next; it was no use.

He was about to give up when there was a gentle knock on the door. Trying to pull himself together, he put the book down and tried to act like he’d been doing paperwork. “Yes? Come in.”

Bolvar put his head around the door, but his expression was solemn. “My King, Lady Prestor has called a council meeting. Grave news from the north, I’m afraid.”

What… what _more_ bad news could be coming from the North? First rumours of a plague, now…

He didn’t remember much of walking to the council chamber, but his spirits couldn’t help but lift as Anduin’s au pair brought him in and handed him to the King. Varian mustered a smile for his son; the little boy returned it, reaching up to play with a lock of Varian’s curly hair in his tiny hand. He was only little, but he was already everything to the King. “C’mere,” he mumbled, as he pulled the young Prince into a hug.

“You know,” Lady Prestor’s voice came across, “we brought a chair in specifically for the Prince. It would be a better observation of royal etiquette to have him sit in it.”

Varian looked at the chair; it was small, raised up from the ground on long legs so that the little boy would be at table height, out of Varian’s arms’ reach. Still - Katrana was right. It was what was correct, according to--  
“He’s _two_ ,” Bolvar cut across, snapping Varian out of his silent trance. “Have you no children of your own, Lady Prestor? Let the boy sit in his father’s lap.”

Varian would be lying if he said he didn’t think Lady Prestor was annoyed, but he’d take the excuse for Anduin’s warm presence on his lap over empty loneliness any day.

Lady Prestor sniffed, her eyes glancing around the council chamber as the last few members filed in, then she solemnly rest her hand on a report which was sitting on the table. “My father, Lord Daval Prestor, sends solemn news from the north,” she began. And then, making no pause or apology for the sheer gravity of the news: “King Terenas is dead.”

A chill went up Varian’s spine, and he held Anduin a little closer.

“Furthermore,” she continued, her tone severe, “there are reliable reports that the one responsible for his death is none other than his son and heir, Prince Arthas, who is now considered guilty of high treason.”

Varian felt sick. Rage and sorrow warred in his heart. How could this _be_? His Arty… how _could_ he, after knowing everything Varian had been through in losing _his_ father?!

But Anduin’s tiny hand on his ceremonial armour, little fingers curling around the edge of his breastplate, little lips turned down in a worried frown, reminded him that he had people to lead. He was a King, now - not a Prince any more. He had a son, and a kingdom. He had to show them how to handle this.

“As King,” he spoke, his voice unmistakably trembling despite his efforts to keep it not so, “I state that this Kingdom’s former allegiance with Arthas Menethil is hereby withdrawn. However, we must support the kingdom of Lordaeron, against whom he has committed this crime, with all we have spare.”  
“Sire,” came the rough voice of a military commander, “with all due respect, we can’t spare much given the ongoing problems in the midlands, and the difficulties we’re having in re-securing the areas of Westfall and northern Redridge.”  
“We will spare what we _can_ ,” Varian repeated. “We will discuss the specifics this afternoon. Arthas was a personal friend of mine, and Teneras like a father to me; I take this betrayal as though it were done unto my own family. I should like to be alone until after lunch.”

And because he was King, that was it.

The council members filed out of the chamber again, mumbling to each other - but it was distant and jumbled, almost a foreign language to Varian’s unhearing ears. The odd person would try to offer condolences to Varian on their way out; he vaguely registered Bolvar thanking them. He didn’t know how to deal with this. He didn’t… he couldn’t…

Katrana’s sharp voice cut across the increasingly empty chamber. “With all due respect, Highlord Fordragon, the King said _alone_. I assume that means you as well.” She made an impatient gesture, rather like a master calling their dog, which Varian might have considered rude if he wasn’t so crushed by other things at that moment.

Varian stared at her, uncomprehending - wasn’t it obvious Bolvar didn’t count? - when Anduin’s tiny voice lit up the room with a determined statement: “No! Together!”

Varian couldn’t help but smile - though the action finally made the tears that had been waiting spill down his cheeks, and it became more difficult by the moment to stave off the sobs that threatened his breathing. Anduin, still clinging to Varian’s armour with one hand, made little grabbing motions towards Bolvar - and the Highlord crouched by Varian’s elaborate seat as Katrana skulked out of the room.

He embraced both Wrynns as Varian finally began to sob, pressing kisses to both their heads and reassuring them that it would be alright. They’d find a way to cope. Not plagues nor demons could keep them from the restoration of their Kingdom - or from justice for King Terenas. He’d make sure of that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated Explicit for smut. Skip to Chapter 5 if you want to avoid that.
> 
> Likewise, this is the last happy chapter; if you want to avoid the character death, then stop reading after this.
> 
> Varian is, for intents and purposes of this scene, a cis man; Bolvar is a trans man.

It was Varian’s first time seeing the inside of Stormwind Keep in four years, and he couldn’t be happier.

He’d been here in the mean time. But it hadn’t really been _him_. Somehow, he’d been split in two, kidnapped, mind-controlled - all by the treacherous Lady Katrana Prestor, whose head now hung from his gates. But there’d been other things to handle - a summit at Theramore, and a Scourge invasion of Stormwind - before he finally got to step back into his home.

He’d spent most of the day preparing for war in the North. This Scourge incursion couldn’t go unanswered; the Lich King was a personal enemy of Varian’s, and his trespasses could not go unpunished. But now he had finally got to retire to his quarters, truly, for the first time in years. And it felt like coming home.

Of course Bolvar was there. And of course they were talking; about the war, mostly, and about Anduin. But there came a point where Varian wasn’t really listening to what Bolvar was saying any more, just watching his lips - and then almost without thinking about the steps in between, he was kissing them.

Oh. _Light_. He was kissing him  _deep_. This moment - he hadn’t even realised he’d wanted it, until now. And now it was all he ever wanted. Bolvar’s warm embrace, his soft hair - the both of them, home for the first time in almost half a decade. Together, properly, without Katrana to try and pull them apart. And - Varian could admit it, now, he felt - it must have been the love Varian had for Bolvar that made Katrana feel so threatened in her position.

He didn’t know, truly, if Bolvar felt the same - but as he pulled back and looked into his eyes, breath short and touch gentle, he felt as if he got his answer.

“Sorry it took me so long to do that,” Varian muttered.  
Bolvar smiled, resting his forehead against Varian’s. “You’re forgiven.”

But as Varian was about to go in and resume what they were doing, Bolvar stopped him. Confused, Varian looked up at him. “You really want this?” Bolvar asked, touching Varian’s cheek gently - then his neck, where the heavy metal collar had laid for so long. “I don’t want you to feel obligated.”  
“Are you kidding?” Varian wrinkled his nose. “Bolvar, I don’t think I’ve wanted something more than this in a long time. Yes, I want this.” He breathed out, looking Bolvar’s face up and down. “Whatever _this_ is. I want _you_.”

There was that blush, again - the one Varian felt like he hadn’t seen since when they’d met, all those years ago - and he kissed Bolvar’s cheeks, nuzzled his nose, and then kissed his lips again.

The move to the bed was a slow one. They had time. Light, they had all the time they wanted, right now - and for the first time in far too long. Neither of them took control, or were forceful - Bolvar was one of the few men Varian knew who was taller than him, but Varian was stronger, and yet neither of them utilised that to an advantage. Because this wasn’t what this was about. It wasn’t about competition, or ownership, or triumph. It was about love. Varian loved Bolvar, with all of his heart, and he poured that into every action he took - every touch to his hip, every stroke of his hair, every gentle kiss just under his ear and every whispered affection. He loved him.

And then they were on the bed, and it came naturally to Varian to pass Bolvar the lube, to kick off his trousers and bare himself on the bed - but Bolvar gently took him by the shoulder and rolled him over onto his side, gentle gentle, and kissed him, and looked into his eyes and told him that he loved him without ever needing to touch his bare, hard cock to prove it.

Varian brought a hand up to his mouth as he started crying. It took him by surprise - why such a simple statement should move him to tears, he didn’t know. But Bolvar paused and simply held him close, kissing his hair, stroking his back. For once, Varian didn’t feel as though he had to stop crying in order to be strong for someone - or to stop Katrana making a snide comment. It was just him, and Bolvar. A still, perfect moment - and one he would savour the memory of for years to come.

But he did stop crying, eventually, and he asked Bolvar if he wouldn’t mind picking up where they left off. Bolvar couldn’t help but grin, and, without breaking the embrace he had Varian in, slicked a finger to prepare him with. It felt more perfect than anything Varian could remember - he was so careful, and patient, and by the time he’d deemed Varian ready for him, Varian was whimpering and keening with need. As Bolvar slid the smooth carved wooden cock into him, Varian could only think of Bolvar - his scent, his name, his wonderful self.

And _Light_ , Bolvar was _good_ with it. Varian supposed he shouldn’t expect any less from someone as good with a sword as Bolvar was - once you knew how to use your weapon as a simple extension of your will, the same became applied to other objects very easily. He found himself panting, leaking helplessly into the hand Bolvar pressed against his cock; kissing him desperately, lovingly, with everything he had. And it didn’t take long at all before he was cumming, shouting Bolvar’s name and clinging to him like his life depended on it.

Varian’s vision cleared after a moment, and he looked up at Bolvar - he was panting, too, his cheeks flushed and his expression soft. Varian knew immediately what he had to do. He kissed his lips firmly, then scooted down on the bed so he could peel Bolvar’s trousers back and - somewhat, at least - return the favour.

Light, he was _marvelous_. His cock was already swollen, his lips slicked - Varian glanced up at Bolvar’s face, waiting for the go-ahead before wrapping his lips around the former and suckling on it. He tasted _amazing_ , and the noises he made were even better - noises Varian had never heard out of him before, rich moans and soft whimpers and the best little whine Varian had ever heard as he slowed down for just a moment to lap up some of his juices. Just the same, it wasn’t long at all before Bolvar’s hand was tight in Varian’s hair, holding him in place as Varian eagerly sucked him off - the way he trembled, the way he cried out Varian’s name like it was the most important thing he could ever have said, made all of Varian’s life so far up to this point worth it. All of it. All the heartbreak and pain was worth this single moment in time.

All too soon, they were too tired to continue; but that didn’t really matter, not when that meant curling up close to Bolvar and listening to him breathe. Listening to his heart beat. They were still partially dressed, and in their daytime clothes too - Varian didn’t care. And Bolvar didn’t seem to, either. They had each other. That was all that mattered.

Varian Wrynn fell asleep, feeling happy and loved - and he hoped, deep in his heart, that he’d made Bolvar Fordragon feel just the same.


	5. Chapter 5

“Father?”  
“Yes, Anduin?” Varian turned from the book he was slowly reading and regarded his nine-year-old son. He was wearing a coy expression, hands tucked behind his back.  
“How did you and Uncle Bolvar meet?”

And it was something of a sweet story, so Varian told him the tale of the boy with the chocolate hair who visited the orphans’ meet-and-greet and ended up becoming a royal literacy tutor.

Only a short handful of years later, a champion handed a shield to Varian. It was well cared for, but battered and charred from a battle it had seen recently - and without its owner. The sight of it brought tears to Varian’s eyes.  
Beside him, his young son - now in his early teens - clutched his royal sceptre anxiously. “Father?” he asked, his voice trembling a little - as if he might know the answer to what he was about to say. “What’s going on?”

And it was the boy’s right to know, so Varian told him the tale of the brave Highlord gone to establish a base camp at their best chance of ending the war in the north quickly, instead fallen prey to a terrible trap.

But there was one tale of Bolvar that Varian could never tell his son. No matter how much it felt like the right thing to do - there was many a night when he’d sat up in agonising deliberation or pained tears that he could not share the terrible relief that came with knowing this fact. Even when his son was grown - through the Cataclysm and the events in Pandaria - he remained resolute in his commitment. Anduin would not know. _Must_ not know.

No matter what, he would never learn of Bolvar’s true fate. Varian would make sure of it.

The knowledge was a dreadful burden on Varian himself, but it was one he would bear for Anduin. But more importantly, for Bolvar himself. Varian had been there at the Frozen Throne - to witness the fall of his once-friend, his once-lover. It had felt like a personal stab in the guts, one of many he’d suffered at Arthas’ hands by then, to see Bolvar hanging above the throne like a child’s doll from a washing line. And to hear Arthas brag about how he’d been tortured made it harder than it ever had been for Varian to allow the chosen champions to engage the dread Lich in combat, and not risk himself and his kingdom any further than they already had.

They’d taken him down. Varian had shown no mercy in the orders he gave. After all, Arthas hadn’t shown mercy to Terenas; he hadn’t shown mercy to Bolvar. As much as Varian had loved him, he couldn’t extend that love to him any more.

Jaina cried, and Varian envied her heart that was so giving. His was not the same - not in the wake of this.

He was prepared to retrieve Bolvar and welcome him home, albeit to a differed existence; it no longer seemed, after all, as though he were human. But he didn’t get the chance. As Arthas fell, so the Helm of Domination had to rise again - and Bolvar was the one to shoulder the burden. The terrible, irreversible burden.

His sweet, loving Bolvar; one of the last man that had been with him since before his city was sacked. Anduin’s second father. And now, he was simply the Jailor of the Damned.

_I **must** be forgotten! If the world is to live free from the tyranny of fear - they must never know what was done here today._

Anduin was a strong young man. Varian could see that now; and he’d always been a strong boy even if Varian hadn’t always believed it despite it staring him in the face. It wasn’t that Varian didn’t think he could understand the news, or cope with it. It wasn’t even that Varian wanted to save him from that tyranny that Bolvar wanted to protect him from - though he agreed that Anduin’s life was probably better off without the knowledge, he’d never sought to coddle his son away from the truths of life. From unnecessary harm, yes; but this was knowledge he was bound to discover eventually, despite all Varian's efforts to the contrary.

No. The reason Varian would never tell his son this particular story was for one simple reason: of all the things Bolvar had done for him over the years, Varian figured he at least owed it to him to respect his final wish.

He still cried whenever he thought about it. But at least by knowing he was doing right by Bolvar’s choices, he could comfort himself where Bolvar’s warm embrace never again would.


End file.
